Women's Voices Unite

April 21, 2010

I’ve flown Southwest
Airlines for about 30 years. This is partially because it is affordable and
partially because it is the only airline with non-puddle-jumping planes that
flies into my hometown of Midland,
Texas.

But I recently had an experience that darn near knocked my socks
off and made me seriously question my loyalty (like I have a choice unless I
want to walk to West Texas) to this company.

Here’s the sordid story in as short a form as I can stomach.
(If anyone from Southwest Airlines happens to be reading this, you can add this
as an addendum to my official complaint, #192310831.)

My toddler, who is presently 2-and-a-half, and I were on a
plane in Vegas, waiting to take off, strapped into our seats and working a
sticker book. In front of us arose some sort of clatter about the flight being
overbooked and “lap children” needing to be on the laps of their parents.

Manny the flight attendant came up to me and asked me if my
daughter was a lap child. I replied that no, she is two with her own ticket.
Manny came back a few minutes later and demanded to know her name, as if he
thought I was pulling a fast one. Which I suppose some people do. He stomped
off to check the flight roster.

Side note: Yes, Manny (or maybe it was Mannie) is his real
name. I want you parents to be forewarned about Manny’s idiocy in case you must
ever fly from

Las Vegas to Midland on flight 267 with a small child.
Manny will not be your friend, nor will he be your child’s friend.

Then Manny came back a third time, for some reason angry and
looking for a fight.

“She’s got to go,” he said.

“What?” I said, thinking he meant that my child was about to
get kicked off the plane.

“She can’t sit in the carseat if she’s not a baby. She has to
sit in the seat without the carseat if she has her own ticket.”

I’ll let all of the parents in the audience pause for a
moment and ponder the multiple layers of ignorance cast upon you in that one
fool sentence.

We proceeded to argue back and forth about how I’ve been
traveling with children for 7 years and I know that it is the parent’s choice
whether or not to put the toddler in a carseat when travelling by air.

No dice. My friend Manny made me take my toddler out of her
seat and hand the offending item over to him. The whole thing terrified my girl
and she immediately started screaming. She refused to be buckled into the “big
girl” seat, going rigid and very nearly hyperventilating. The plane was
delayed. The other passengers were annoyed, but at least sympathetic. I was
embarrassed and very nearly in tears myself. It was awful.

All the while, Mr. Manny didn’t seem the slightest bit
concerned that he had upset a small child (or small adult for that matter). He
never offered condolences or tried to explain. He was obviously having a bad
day and he decided that picking on and bullying the mom with the little kid was
a lot easier than telling the two obese men who took up three seats in the front
row that they needed to haul their enlarged posteriors elsewhere.

The dude probably takes candy from babies. He certainly
takes carseats from babies.

Then suddenly the lead flight attendant, whose name I wish I
had gotten, brought us back the carseat and apologized. I fought my kid back
into her seat with bribes of chocolate and she promptly passed out. Probably
from fear.

I thought the matter was over, but no. Manny the Asshat made
a point of coming by two more times, not to apologize but to let me know that
he was still correct.

“I looked in the book,” he said. “She has to be in an adult
seat.”

Sure buddy. I know that big kids don’t ride in laps on
airplanes, but I also know that FAA and Southwest Airlines
recommends using an approved child safety seat for kids up to age 4 or 40
pounds. I fly a lot and, unlike Manny, I tend to pay attention to these things.

I just nodded at him and made sure I got his damn stinking
name so that I could properly inform Southwest Airlines that Manny needs to get
some training in FAA standards and perhaps magically ingest a dose of human
empathy if he wishes to remain in the service industry.

The whole thing was one step away from those horror stories
you hear about titillated flight attendants asking a breastfeeding mom to get off
the plane. Not quite that bad. But horrendous nonetheless.

Yes, I filed an official complaint with Southwest and they
will get back to me within 45 days. In the meantime, I am sure Manny will act
like a complete heartless douchebag to yet another family.

God bless him, I hope someday he has children of his own.

--Robin Dutton-Cookston is senior editor of Mamazina and
lots of other good stuff too. Check out her book at The Foggiest Idea.

February 15, 2010

My trip to the Hawaiian Islands was cut
short because my traveling companion turned out to be an ill-mannered toad,
instead of Prince Charming; nevertheless, I did come away with some delightful
observations.

First
off, I discovered that dark boulders floating in the blue Pacific waters off
Maui are really sea turtles swimming towards the black lava strewn shore. If
you watch long enough you will notice every few minutes their little heads
pop-up gasping for a deep breath, or are they looking around to make sure that
they’re swimming in the right direction?

The second day as I buried my feet deep in
the brown-sugar sands looking at the horizon, I spotted a dazzling white ship in
the distance. Then in a flash, it was gone. Is this a trick of the sun? No. Much
to my enchantment, it was a pod of free spirited humpback whales flipping their
tails high in the air, and then slapping them down with all their might sending
plumes of icy-salt-spray towards the sky. I would sit patiently waiting for
them to flaunt with grace their ability to do another awe-inspiring high-flying
belly flop or a front pike half-twist dive.

On the third day, I stand high on a cliff in
Lahaina above the ocean. This is where the local big boys surf…very cool!I hear the rhythmic accents and Jamaican music
floating in the air. The surfers look more like nimble skateboarders. I watch a
zig-zag-tuck and the rider is airborne…then suddenly freefalling out of sight. The
audience releases a breath in unison when the surfer swims to the surface.Oh my gawd, I notice another agile surfer catching
a wave and he’s headed under the frothy white curl of a 15-footer. I gasp and stare
along with the other spectators.

I
confess I tend to be a worrywart. Let’s put it this way, when my kids were
young I was that mom who watched all of the kids on the playground. I was
ever ready to bolt into action if anyone got hurt or when another child was
about to hurt my baby, I would get in their face. Needless to say, years later,
I’ve not changed much.

Therefore, taking advantage of my
excellent observation spot on the cliff, I watch each surfer as if I birthed
them myself. I count each head as they come up; grab their board attached to their
ankle, and start paddling out to catch yet another perfect wave.

However, after one monstrous crushing wave
swallowed several riders, I saw this surfer go under and never come back up.The hair on the back of my neck stands on
end. My stomach does a flip-flop. Franticly
I scan the beach below. Where are the lifeguards? Am I the only one that sees this drowning? The surfboard is missing. I think he lost it
or is the board caught under rocks and he is held under the water by that
stupid-strap around his ankle? I know I’m right when I see another quick glimpse
of his dark head. I don’t know what to do. Please Lord, I do not want to see a
dead body.

Alarmed
I shriek to the stranger standing next to me. “See that spot?” My arms are
flailing; my hands are flying as I point toward the bubbling foam, close to
shore. “I keep seeing a head float up to the surface. And now that guy is going
to be slammed into the rocks!”

“Ya he’ll be okay,” the Maui native says. Then
taking a double look at my pale face and the wild look in my eyes, he slowly flashes
his pearly whites. “It’s a turtle.”

September 02, 2009

I was in “the zone”, a very pleasant place in which the brain is undecided between either sleep or wakefulness. The previous day I had gone swimming in the rolling waves of Cupsogue Beach in Westhampton. Every time I tried to go to sleep, I would picture myself floating on those waves, and I could feel the beta waves switching on. Even though I could not fall into a deep sleep, I would open my eyes feeling more wakeful.

I opened my eyes and the previously black sky had turned dark blue. It was 5:45 AM and my travel companion informed me that we were passing through the Shenandoah Valley. Straight ahead of us the morning star was visible. As I looked around, I could faintly see the darker outline of the mountains all around me.

“Oh wow, this is definitely worth staying awake for,” I said, and watched in awe over the next fifteen minutes as the sun rose over the mountain range. First the sky turned lighter and lighter shades of blue. Then the pink started to tinge the edges of the peaks. Various shades of rose came and went until the entire sky was light blue, and the moment was gone.

I finally felt safe to go to sleep, and got a power nap for a half hour; it was the only sleep I had gotten in the past two days. I woke up with an amazing second wind and took over the driving for the second half of the 900-mile drive from Eastern Long Island to Western Tennessee.

“Are you okay? Do you know where you are?” my friend asked me.

“No, I don’t know where I am, but this does,” I said, gesturing to the GPS, my Valentine’s Day present last year.

“And you’re fine with that?” she asked incredulously.

“Yeah. Absolutely.”

That image would hold me out for the rest of the day. As I felt the monotony of the GPS’ telling me to stay on I-81-S for another several hundred miles; of being in Virginia for several hundred miles; and of driving through endless hills and trees and cows for several hundred miles, I would bring forth that image of the sun breaking the day over the mountain range.

August 04, 2009

Squealing,
"Yes-Yes-Yes," I toss the phone on the bed and dance a little boogie
around my room. My son just invited me to ride with his cycling team at
the LiveStrong Challenge in Austin, Texas. The team's captain, Zang Toi is a friend of Cory, and just so happens to be a New York Fashion Designer. How cool is that?

Before
long, I began to panic. Why did I say yes? Have I lost my ever-loving
mind? Then my mocking inner-voice gets down and dirty. "How can a
big-boned Baby Boomer living quietly in the deep-south get into shape
for a 40 mile bike ride?"

Sick
to my stomach I phone Cory to back-out. However, all I get out of him
is, "Relax Mom. It's not that hard of a ride." Yeah, that's easy for
him to say, he's a male model who stays in shape by walking all over
New York City. Moreover, it's my rear-end that will be grossly plopped
over a tiny bike seat for all to see.

Without
further ado, I find an official training schedule on the internet. I
have a game plan. I will be in tip-top shape for this forty-mile
challenge. I'm ready to start. Well almost, I need to buy a bike.

Picking
out a brightly colored ride is easy however, getting the matching
accessories and flattering clothing options prove to be a problem. In
addition, I must have music, a mileage meter, a pair of gel-padded
gloves, a water bottle, and a mini backpack to hold my new-fangled emergency cell phone.

I
start out gradually riding around the block staying on flat paved
roads. By the end of the second week, I'm feeling good and zip down the
narrow asphalt road on my new fire-engine-red Mongoose bike. I round a
corner spotting a young boy wearing a metallic black helmet. Whoa, it's
just like mine. This kid is wildly jumping ditches on his posh BMX bike.
I turn onto the gravel road. I want to enjoy this talented
demonstration up close and personal. I'm comfortable trekking up the
rocky incline because I have on a pair of color coordinated
strategically padded bike shorts. (Oh yeah, I'm lookin ' hot.) The rough
terrain requires that I gear down, or is it gear up? Sweat drips and
burns my eyes. My jiggling legs seem to be spinning rapidly without any
progress. Sticking out a shaky foot to keep from falling, I use my tippy
-toes to make small tapping movements to turn around. The bewildered
daredevil is now watching me slowly roll back down the shallow incline.
Man-alive I've got to be stuck-on-stupid.

On
the contrary, I am able to lift my leg up and over the seat to
dismount, and I swear my butt is getting tighter. I can do this!exercise

By
the ninth week, I'm able to zoom ten miles up and down the back roads.
I ride in a racing position, bottom up, and off that impolite bike
seat. I bounce through potholes and over fallen branches. Just for fun.

The
Austin trip is off! Cory split up with his girlfriend. Consequently, do
I have the courage to drive twelve hours to Austin and then stay in a
hotel...alone? Oh-Hell-No.

Instead,
I fly to New York for some mother-son bonding. After five jam-packed
days, my sagging knees will never forget that we trudged up and down a
million subway stairs, snaked through Central Park and marched over the
Brooklyn Bridge.

When
I re-cycled myself, I also reclaimed my youthful effervescent
personality. I say this because at the end of my visit I noticed that
Cory shoved me into an airport bound cab and crawled back into bed
because he's dead dog-tired. And I, with a grin on my face and a spring
in my step trot down LaGuardia 's corridor to catch a plane. I may be an
older modern culture Baby-Boomer living in the deep-south but this
re-cycled momma just wore her pretty-sons' skinny-butt out!

August 01, 2009

So I took my oldest child to the emergency room last
weekend. I wish I could say it was the first time I had to take a child to the
ER. But at least it was the first time in Texas. And I can now check “stitches”
off the childhood trauma box.

It was a classic childhood injury. A thwackety-thwack chin
smack on the edge of the swimming pool. Yowtch!

The cut itself looked icky (I could see the fatty tissue
underneath her still adorably chubby 6-year-old chin) but nothing for mama to
panic over. However, the gaping quality of the wound led us to believe that the
lesion required more than the simple Scooby Doo band-aid.

In truth, the initial panic lay far from the location or
severity of the physical injury but in the resources (or lack thereof) found in the
small town where my family vacations in central Texas lake country.

No fracking hospital.

“Where do people have babies around here?” I muttered as my family hurtled about the small town,
jamming our fingers across our iPhones in a frantic quest for a nearby emergent
care center. Marble Falls, Texas doesn’t exactly seem like a bastion of
homebirth midwife activism so I knew the mamas had to go somewhere nearby to
push those little Texans out.

We quickly found out where the locals release their spawn when
the jerkoff minor emergency clinic declined our HMO. The good folks of Marble
Falls have babies, treat broken bones, and stitch up swimming pool-busted
chins by hauling a few miles over to an actual hospital in Burnet.

They treated my little patient very well in Burnet. The
nurses were kind, sweet, and patient. They told her she was a big girl and
doing a good job and very brave. The physician’s assistant who did the actual
sewing up of the cut was obviously not used to kids, especially precocious
redhead kids with lots of questions. By the time a certain precocious redhead
dared to ask him how long the whole thing would take, he looked genuinely
baffled and lost, like no patient had ever dared to ask him such a preposterous
inquiry. And this time the precocious redhead was me.

And I did fine with the whole thing. Until I saw the fear in
my baby’s face. I could hear the dryness in her mouth, and her breath had the
funk of that cotton-mouth terror where all saliva goes into reverse in some
sort of fight or flight panic to reserve bodily fluids for maximum utility at a
later date. Her voice quivered as she sucked back tears. Her hands shook each
time she yanked a nervous tug of hair behind her pale little ear, and her
normally porcelain face took on the shade of the Latoya Jackson statue at the
wax museum. I worried she was going to pass out.

The sight of that small round face making a go at Big Girl
Heroics very nearly pushed out my own tears, but I sucked it up too. Someone
needs to be the grownup in these sorts of situations.

We ended the big day with a trip into south Austin for old
friends, pizza, and snowcones. I bribed
the patient with a Homeslice Pizza t-shirt in atonement for the Texas-sized
bummer that she would now have to spend 25% of our Tour of Texas Grandparents trip
out of the lake and swimming pool while the stitches healed.

It was the least I could do for my brave girl.

Postscript by the patient:"I know it seems like the stitches were the worstest part. It actually
was the medicine. Because they stuck it inside of my cut. But when we were done
with it I still couldn’t open my mouth too wide. Before I had the stitches and
just a cut I didn’t open my mouth wide because it made me feel hurtful."

--Robin Dutton-Cookston is senior editor at Mom Writer's Literary Magazine and lots of other good stuff too. Check out her blog at The Foggiest Idea.

July 18, 2009

I have been writing several stories about my family's recent vacation to Michigan. For the full effect of funny visit my Web site, listed below. Here is my most recent offering:

Years ago when my boys were small we would eagerly await the dancing demonstration every Thursday by the local Indians. We'd huddle outside on the rickety bleachers listening to the locals spin their tales, watching them dance. We'd take video of my boys huddled in a tepee pretending to be Indians. And of course we visited all three of the city's Indian shops. The above shot is my little Indian's first trip to Houghton Lake 20 years ago. Feather headdresses, coon skin caps, tom toms, rubber javelins and tomahawks all made their way back home. My boys simply loved wandering around the gift shops. They had their souvenir money, and not one penny of that ever made it home!

So there we were this year wandering around the very same gift shops offering much the same merchandise, when I picked up a small plastic hammer that looked like it was supposed to squeak when hit. So I hit it on the counter. And it broke right in two! I did not bang it down hard. Next, I did what any kid would do - I put it down...fast.

Hmmm...a dilemma. I actually was quite mad that the stupid thing broke. What to do? I walked over to someone who shall remain nameless, therefore blameless, and confessed. Nameless said, "Just leave it. Don't worry about it."

Hmmm...Didn't set well with me. What would Jesus do? Jesus would have had a nice sturdy toy hammer made out of wood. It wouldn't have broken. But I was stuck with a cheapy plastic piece of...well, you get the idea.

It cost $1.59 but it was the principle of the thing. I did not want to pay for a defective toy. I couldn't leave it in the bin for some poor unsuspecting child to cut herself on. No one but Nameless knew what happened - or so I thought. I grabbed the stupid hammer, marched up to the cashier, laid the hammer down and said, "This broke." Not too much information. Just enough. It did break.

The cashier said, "Oh." I walked away acting nonchalant. Of course I spent a fair amount on other souvenirs I'd collected, and then went out to the car to my waiting family.

The instant the car door opened in rapid-fire succession:

"Did you really break it?"

"Did you tell them?"

"Did you buy it?"

To which I replied, "Yes, yes, and no."

Obviously, Nameless blabbed. Awfully glad I did the right thing. I always knew I would - it was just a matter of how.

Lesson taught - lesson learned. This mom thing is never really over, is it, no matter how big they are?

~ Maureen :)

Speaking of big!

Maureen Locher is copy editor and columnist of Just Another Manic Momday at Mom Writer's Literary Magazine. Read her vacation stories and more at www.MaureenLocher.com. Maureen has finished her book, Slippers of Sand, and is preparing to pitch it face-to-face to a real live publisher in August. Prayers, good wishes, fingers crossed all would be much appreciated.